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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28474968">Little Things, Sweet and Bitter</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/LackadaisicalLass/pseuds/LackadaisicalLass'>LackadaisicalLass</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Baking, Comedy, F/M, Fluff, I need a hug, Romance, everybody needs a hug, this was supposed to be a oneshot, whoops angst</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 14:36:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,864</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28474968</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/LackadaisicalLass/pseuds/LackadaisicalLass</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky accidentally sneaks up on Darcy scaring the shit out of her so she puts a bell on him...actually, closer to thirty tiny multicolored bells, all wrapped around one shiny metal wrist. All in all, the arm looks rather festive.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James "Bucky" Barnes/Darcy Lewis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>336</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Darcy stared at the infuriating lump of dough willing it to rise. To puff. To do anything! The featureless dome of what was supposed to be challah seemed to stare eyeless back at her. She was half tempted to poke eyes in the lump but that may have been even more disturbing than the feeling of inanimate dough silently judging her, and Darcy had enough nightmares as it was. She didn’t know where she’d gone wrong? The only thing she could think of was the yeast was dead, but this was Stark’s kitchen. Well...not exactly Stark’s, she wasn’t sure if she’d ever seen the man cook, but it was the slick fully equipped kitchen chef's dream of and it was paid for with Stark’s money. Literally no expense was spared! There was no way a kitchen like that would have dead yeast! Jarvis would never do her dirty like that. For the life of her, Darcy could not understand what went wrong. </p><p>She hadn’t over salted the dough. </p><p>The hydration was correct. </p><p>The temperature was perfect. </p><p>She hadn’t done anything wrong.</p><p>But it was dead. </p><p>It really shouldn’t have been as upsetting as it was. It was flour eggs oil and sugar, not the end of the world. Darcy had seen the end of the world...the attempted ends of the world. Some failed bread was not important, not worth getting upset over but Darcy felt a tightness in her chest that wouldn’t lighten up. All she had needed was a little victory, for just one thing to go right. One goddamn thing and she could convince herself that...it didn’t matter because somehow for reasons beyond her understanding this had gone wrong too. She felt so brittle like she was made of glass as thin as eggshells and if one more thing rattled her she’d fall to pieces. </p><p>Real people were hurt. Real people had risked their lives and she was holding back tears over fucking dough! Darcy hit it, bringing the rolling pin down hard on the insufferable mound of dough, caving in it’s stupid squishy nonface and leaving a perfectly round valley between two smaller lumps. </p><p>That was uncalled for. She gently gathered it back together, swaddling the abused mass in plastic wrap to prevent it from drying out while she rummaged through the fridge for inspiration. Butter. It may not be the solution to many of her problems, but maybe it could salvage this mess. She grabbed two sticks from the fridge and began to prepare her counter space. Setting the rock hard butter to the side as she rolled her dough of disappointment into a neat square. Laying out some parchment paper she began to beat the butter. She pounded the rolling pin down again and again, imprecisely but effectively flattening it into an imperfect square. </p><p>She was about to bring the rolling pin down again when a massive shadow materialized out of thin air. Three things happened in quick succession. First, her brain short-circuited, instantaneously filling in the shape of the shadow with every sort of monster she’d had the misfortune of learning was real. Then her heart made a valiant attempt to escape the confines of her rib cage, and finally, the hand that had been holding the rolling pin decided it wanted to get in on the chaos, missing her original target by a mile and coming down on her other hand instead before dropping the solid wood cylinder squarely on her bare foot.  </p><p>The scream of fear did not escape. The furious string of pained expletives did. Darcy wondered if she’d imagined the crunch she heard when it made impact. Without thinking she doubled over clutching her throbbing hand against herself. From her position squatting on the floor, the massive shadow was even larger, it’s towering silhouette blocking out what meager lighting she’d left on in the kitchen. </p><p>Then heard the behemoth shuffle above her. </p><p>~~~</p><p>He hadn’t been sleeping. He didn’t do that anymore, so he did not exactly wake up. No, he went from a state of regimented stillness one moment, to hyper-aware of a strike finding its mark the next. The sound was loud enough to give him a sense of direction but not clear enough to tell him what had just occurred. He turned his eyes to the clock, it was 2:47 am. He contemplated extricating himself from the too soft cushions when he heard another softer, but distinct thud, then again and again. The thuds coming in a sporadic rhythm. He was off the couch and striding towards the source before he even finished the thought. </p><p>He’d been expecting the worst. He’d learned that was the only thing he could do. So he’d been inexcusably unprepared when he discovered the source of the unsteady thudding. </p><p>It was a girl. </p><p>No. It was a young woman, short, but the hypnotic curves of her body were anything but childish. He traced the flowing line of her back from where her wild chestnut hair hung just past her shoulder blades to the dip of her waist to the lush swell of her— no. He wasn’t allowed to think like that anymore. Wasn’t allowed to want such things anymore. Men like him didn’t deserve the privilege. Still, he did not look away. He watched her in the warm dim light of the kitchen, studying the barely perceptible tension in her frame. The tightness in her jaw. Upon closer inspection, the corner of a lush lower lip caught between her teeth. He needed to stop. He needed to see. No, he wanted. He’d thought the ability, the independence of thought required to want anything had been beaten out of him.</p><p>Apparently not. </p><p>He swallowed at the realization, not sure if it was a good or bad one, and padded closer on silent feet. It was clear she was in her own world, that, or faking extraordinarily well. She didn’t even look up as he approached, barring some serious vision impairment, he should have been easily visible in her peripheral vision. He wasn’t trying to go undetected. Stealth meant intention, purpose, ugly things better left behind. Without thinking he’d nearly come within arm's length of her. Her softly rounded shoulder a hair's breadth out of reach. </p><p>It was then that she registered his presence and...malfunctioned. He couldn’t think of a better word for it. Her face turned towards him but her eyes were unclear. Her shoulders had turned slightly but the hand with the rolling pin continued its trajectory connecting solidly with the knuckles of her other hand. He heard the familiar telltale click of joints popped out of alignment at the same time she dropped the rolling pin on the tiny bare toes peeking out from under the hem of her lounge pants. </p><p>“Flaming mother of a shitbiscut fucknado WHYYYYY!?” </p><p>Well, that was certainly a...sequence of words. Not his first guess when it came to what he’d thought might come out of a pair of lips like that. The petite woman was rendered even tinier when she dropped to the floor curling her body around the damaged hand in a tight fetal position. It was a few seconds before she lifted her eyes to him, long seconds that stretched out giving him time to examine the way her dark lashes fanned out, the delicate barely perceptible lacework of blue veins across her eyelids, the sweep of her neck—</p><p>“What the ever loving fuck!?” </p><p>Her eyes were watery and red rimmed when they met his. The stormy blue gray still not fully registering who he was. </p><p>“You sneaky little ninja I thought you were a goddamn murder elf!” Those were also words, they made about as much sense as the ones that came before. </p><p>Feeling guilty for catching her off guard, though he still did not understand how that was even possible, he offered her a hand to help her up. She grunted at the offending appendage irritably. Which was odd, he’d offered the less offensive of the two hands. </p><p>“Could you just give a girl a bloody minute to wallow in self pity? Jeez.”</p><p>The tears that had been welling in the corners of her eyes slipped over the ridge of her lower lids and slipped down her cheeks. Dislocating a couple of fingers wasn’t the worst, but it sure as hell wasn’t pleasant. He stepped back, giving her room, and circled around her to the fridge. He grabbed a bag of frozen peas and neatly wrapped it in a kitchen towel. Waiting to offer it to her after she’d had a minute to wallow. A minute and a half. After almost two minutes she finally began to rise from her hunched position on the floor. Using the edge of the counter to pull herself up with her good hand. He handed her the peas and she took the bundle without looking. </p><p>“Oh...hi. You’re Steve’s-” he hadn’t belonged to himself in decades, he supposed it was better to belong to Steve than...others. “-you scared the pants off me-“ well that certainly wasn’t true, he’d seen the way the stretchy material clung to her thighs, pants like that wouldn’t come off without some coaxing “someone really ought to put a bell-Ohmygod! Ha, this is too perfect!”</p><p>The petite woman broke into a mischievous, if a bit teary, smile. She softly set down the cold pack. He watched her a little transfixed as she reached for his hand, the wrong hand, and took it in hers. She interlaced her delicate polish tipped fingers with his metal ones and awkwardly used the thumb of her mangled hand to hook under a colorful string of tinkling bells, stretching it over their joined hands and sliding it down to his wrist. Dozens of tiny bells of red, green, blue, purple, and gold clinked noisily against the metal of his wrist. </p><p>“There.” She shook their joined hands setting off another cascade of metallic jingling “All the bells. Now I can hear you coming before you can give me arrhythmia.” </p><p>She released his hand, but he could still feel the echo of her warmth on his artificial palm. He looked at her damaged hand, her middle and ring finger bent at unnatural angles, and gestured to it. </p><p>She looked at the hand too, seeming to fully register what had happened “Oh jeez. Ew. That’s really not supposed to look like that.” </p><p>He nodded in agreement and held out his hand again. Motioning to her to let him get a better look. Docilely she gave him her hand and bit her lip as he gently prodded. It was exactly what he’d expected, dislocated, the ligaments and tendons were strained but seemed undamaged. It wasn’t hard to find the tape he was looking for with his other hand. Practically every room in this place was equipped with some kind of first aid kit. He set it on the counter and returned his full attention to the fingers.</p><p>“Am I going to live?”</p><p>He nodded absently and then in quick succession popped the two fingers back into alignment. Her body jerked at the sudden flare of pain and her forehead connected sharply with his chin. </p><p>“Son of a bitch! Ow!” She rubbed her forehead with her good hand “and ow again! A little fucking warning!?” </p><p>He shrugged. The worst was already over, he pulled off a length of tape and immobilized the two compromised digits. He glanced down at her toes and she hopped out of his reach. “No thank you mister, I think I’ve had enough of your tender care for one night.” </p><p>If only. He remembered an old self. One that might have offered her more than one night of tender care, the sort she could never get enough of. He heard her harrumph, a grumpy line creasing the space between her brows. No, he’d done quite enough damage for one night. He should have never approached her. He began to turn away, and she exploded into a flurry of movement. </p><p>“Oi! You wait just a gosh dang minute mister! Where the heck do you think you're going?” She planted her good hand on one full hip as the other floated awkwardly at her side. If intimidation was her tactic, she needed to seriously re-examine her capabilities. “I’m not sure if you noticed but I’m down one hand, and a third of a foot, so if it wouldn’t be too much trouble I’d like to borrow yours.” He watched her pause, seeming to run the sentence through her head a second time, then flailed slightly “Your hand that is... unless your foot is good with a rolling pin, but I’m putting that firmly in the category of last resorts, cause gross.” She made a face. </p><p>Well, she made a lot of faces. So far as he could tell this dame couldn’t settle on one expression for long. He wondered if it was exhausting, feeling so much all the time. He couldn’t remember if he’d ever met anyone so open. Open wasn’t the right word. Steve was open, to him at least, growing up with him he was well versed in every variation of stoic the punk had and what each one meant. This woman was a five foot two tempest. He only had to be in the room with her for two minutes to know her personality was a damn force of nature. In a word she was, trouble. </p><p>She was glaring at him impatiently, one hand held out expectant “Come on, let me see ‘em.” </p><p>At his hesitation, she motioned at his hands reaching for one, the wrong one, and gently drawing it to her. He watched damn near paralyzed with shock as she pressed the back of his hand against the soft curve of her cheek. Was he still breathing? Had she hit her head on his chin a lot harder than he first thought?</p><p>She smiled, and when she met his eyes she looked pleased as punch. “Pastry loves cold hands, keeps the butter from melting.” She said by way of explanation. </p><p>She let his hand down.</p><p>Then grabbed his flesh hand and repeated the procedure. This time he knew he stopped breathing. Her cheek was warm, soft, and he was keenly aware of where one of his knuckles pressed ever so lightly against the curve of her lip. It was excruciating. It was perfect. The casual tenderness of the gesture tilted his world on its head, and he found he preferred this new upside-down place where nothing made sense. Where else could something like him ever have the privilege of being touched by someone like her? </p><p>“Huh, this one is cold too.” She paused quirking her lips slightly “Really cold, if that isn’t a sign you were born to be a patissier-mmmm or maybe chocolatier, I don’t know what is.” What perfect nonsense, he wasn’t born for a god damn thing, certainly nothing so benign. If anything, he’d been reborn to kill. He felt her pull gently at his wrist, eying him meaningfully. That’s right, she was touching his hands because he’d ruined one of hers. Testing their aptitude for the task she could no longer perform herself.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Once it was clear he was not planning on leaving he watched her settle on one of the kitchen stools opposite him. Time passed steadily between them as she instructed him in folding and chilling the dough to create numerous alternating layers of fat and dough. She chatted about cooking being the most worthy and least confusing application of math and chemistry, about how science started in the kitchen. She left gaps in the conversation, an invitation for him to speak, but never pushed. Once she was satisfied with the dough she instructed him to chill it as she sought out more ingredients. She found dark chocolate and together they broke the bars into small slim rectangles. The benign repetition of cutting the dough into strips and wrapping it around pieces of chocolate was nothing like the repetition of training. Training may have helped somewhat to focus the restless energies that plagued him, but he was also keenly aware that it was just another thing that honed him into a more effective more brutal weapon. This was, she was, gentle. The act of transforming ingredients into something more so unlike reducing men and women into inert bodies. </p>
<p>He did not belong here. </p>
<p>She handed him a small bowl with an egg and some water in it and he contentedly beat it till the mixture was homogenous, then watched as she carefully brushed the tops of each roll before placing the tray in the oven. It was not long before the dimly lit kitchen filled with the smells of fresh bread and melting chocolate. They tidied...he tidied, the kitchen while they waited for the confections to bake. The warmth of it all easing the tension in him in a way he had not known was possible. </p>
<p>The spell was somewhat broken when the harsh buzzer of the timer shattered the comfortable quiet. She peaked into the oven, she seemed pleased when she pulled away and bounced across the kitchen to open a drawer. </p>
<p>He retrieved the first tray and she yelped in horror. “WHAT ARE YOU!? OVEN MITTS-“ she looked at his hand, still steadily holding the tray of baked goods “...Oh, okay. That works too. Clever. You can put ‘em down here.”</p>
<p>He watched her survey the rows of baked goods, then pull out a wire rack and began carefully moving each one to the rack to cool. Silently he nudged her, motioning her back to her seat and cold pack, then took over the task. Gently and precisely he transferred each warm pain au chocolat to its place.</p>
<p>Once he finished he glanced back at her, finding her looking oddly conflicted “Oh my god, this is bad.” </p>
<p>His stomach dropped.</p>
<p>“I wanna keep you. You’re like the best kitchen assistant I’ve ever had! You don’t sneak bites, you don’t windge, you’re patient, and you listen. How are you this perfect?” She was glaring a little at him now, playfully admonishing him for a task well done. It was bizarre. She cupped her chin in the palm of her good hand looking contemplative. “I mean I’m not saying that’s a good reason to kidnap a decorated veteran, but I’m not saying I’m not tempted.”</p>
<p>Suddenly, she clapped her hand over her mouth looking horrified “Fuck! I mean I won’t kidnap you!...not that I even could in the first place.” She sputtered awkwardly “Bad joke. Very bad terrible awful stupid tasteless joke! Sorry!” She looked away from him searching for a verbal escape hatch and locked on the rows of cooling baked goods. She picked one up and held it up for his inspection “I think these babies have cooled long enough, bite?”</p>
<p>He took it and bit a corner. Crisp delicate layers of dough shattered under his bite. The aromatic chocolate reminding him of a past life, of a past self long dead. His brain told him it was delicious, but no matter how hard he willed himself to experience it as he should, to enjoy it, he could not. This could no longer nourish him. Nothing it seemed could ease the hollow ache that clung to him. </p>
<p>“That bad huh?” She’d seen it in his face, disappointment, drawing her own conclusions. Shame tightened around his throat. He set the pain au chocolat down feeling impotent. </p>
<p>She picked it up, biting off a corner of her own chewing it thoughtfully “Not inedible, but you’re right, it really calls for a leaner dough. Challah dough laminated with butter just makes the whole thing too heavy.”</p>
<p>She sighed “But that’s my fault. Thank you though, for your help. Anytime you want to be my helping hands you’ve got an open invitation. ESPECIALLY if you want to grate cheese. You don’t have to. Just figured there’s no way you’ll skin off half your knuckles-“ she cut herself off “and I’m being insensitive again, aren’t I? I should probably try to sleep. Sorry...and thank you. Both. Okay bye.” He watched her scamper off with the partially eaten pastry and a second intact one disappearing around a corner. </p>
<p>Leaving two dozen freshly baked pain au chocolat unguarded on the kitchen counter. Apparently unconcerned with their fate.</p>
<p>Her head reappeared around the corner. “I’m Darcy, by the way. Okay, bye for real now.”</p>
<p>He just stood there. Slightly baffled.</p>
<p>~~~</p>
<p>He stood alone in the kitchen for less than an hour before he heard quiet stirrings above him, and the very telling sound of a pair of tactical boots landing on Stark’s polished floor. Agent Barton appeared a heartbeat later, gaze fixed on the fresh pastries. Barton glanced back and forth between him and the baked goods a couple times before speaking. </p>
<p>“Hot damn! These all yours?” He motioned eagerly at the counter. Barnes felt his head shake mechanically in denial. He’d thought they were hers, but she’d seemed displeased with them. </p>
<p>A grin spread across Barton’s face, and he grabbed one of the pastries. “Score!”</p>
<p>He watched the man shove half of it in his mouth then groan in pleasure. Apparently, they were good. He’d known that, but he...he was...wrong. Fractured. Food hadn’t tasted the same since hydra had unmade him, he’d thought the ability to enjoy food would return in time. Other pieces had. Maybe if he’d enjoyed the bite properly she wouldn’t have looked so disappointed. </p>
<p>He heard Steve enter, interrupting his thoughts “Oh you’re already up, I was thinking we could go for a run and pick up some-” he took in the rows of freshly baked sweets covering the counter “...breakfast?” Following Clint’s lead, he grabbed one and took a bite. Steve’s face softened, and a smile he hadn’t seen since they were kids spread across his face.  It was a sight. When Steve turned to aim that smile at him, he felt a tiny shard of his former self slip into place. “Aw Buck, they’re just like the ones we had back-” he stopped short “—they’re really good.”</p>
<p>No matter how short, the moment had been a gift. Unintentional, but it was still because of her, Darcy, and he thought he should find a way to thank her. </p>
<p>“Scoot golden boy.” Stark shoved through the small gathering at the kitchen counter, grabbing a plate and stacking it high with pain au chocolat. “Ahh, Sweet sustenance. Nice bracelet murder bot.”</p>
<p>“TONY!” Steve balked, then glanced down at his wrists. First skin and bone, then metal “Oh? That is...nice. Very um, colorful. So how bout that run?”</p>
<p>He couldn’t hide the wince, at least not from Steve, at the idea of jogging as the sun rose and the city filled with bustling civilians. The disappointment on his best friend’s face stung fiercely. He wished he could slip back into his old self like a well-worn jacket, but so much had changed, too many sharp edges.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Restlessness needled him like the rough edges of an old scab, the urge to give in and pick at it nearly overwhelming. He’d spent the better part of two hours testing the limits of every piece of gym equipment he knew how to use, and half of the next hour under a shower set to scalding. He was still cold, the soldier inside of him twitching for violence. An animal pacing in its cage. He was in no condition to be around civilians, around any living thing, and that’s when he found her. </p><p>He’d gone to the roof looking for a place he could simply breath unburdened, thinking no one would be there this time of night. It was nothing like the sleek protected balconies of the lower levels, the space was utilitarian, built for landing and taking off. It was completely exposed to the cold and wind. Not a space many would describe as pleasant, yet there she sat near the corner of it wrapped in a maroon blanket that looked closer to black in the dim ambient light of the city. Her face was blank staring at nothing, half illuminated by the light of the small screen in her lap. He had no idea what this woman was doing here in the middle of the night, but she didn’t belong. </p><p>Inadvertently scaring her here could have catastrophic consequences. So he tried to announce his presence, shaking his left arm to make the bells clatter against each other. When there was no response he did it again, louder. She twitched then twisted to face him. </p><p>One corner of her mouth twitched up warming her blank expression into a half smile “Hey gorgeous, whatcha doin?”</p><p>She didn’t bat an eye at his lack of a response, just stuck an arm out of her blanket cocoon and motioned him over “Come on, it’s fucking freezing up here.” </p><p>He did. </p><p>He couldn’t say why. He fought that lingering inclination to blindly follow orders at every turn, and yet, it was barely an order but he was walking over before she’d even finished speaking. He sat confused where she’d patted the pavement. </p><p>More confused when she started unwrapping the blanket around her. She offered him one end of the blanket, inadvertently brushing her fingers across his arm. “Holycheezeballs you’re a frickin’ popsicle-“ she gasped slapping her hand over her mouth “I mean, fuck!—not fuck!!—I meant...you’re cold, it’s warmer with a blanket.”</p><p>Her face was already chapped pink from the icy wind, but he watched it turn a few shades redder. He took the blanket, and she scooted in till it could wrap around both of them. He was keenly aware of the heat radiating from the side of her body nearest him. It was nice. </p><p>She wiggled slightly and he looked down to find her smiling “You’re wearing it.” He shrugged slightly in acknowledgment and she laughed “I feel like I won something. I promise I won’t go sticking fridge magnets to you. I’m satisfied with this.” </p><p>They sat in silence for a while and her expression relaxed to neutral. The sky was barely beginning to shift in color when she spoke again. </p><p>“I couldn’t breath.” </p><p>She laughed, half heartedly “How can a building with twenty foot ceilings feel stuffy? It’s so stupid.”</p><p>He felt her side brush his as her ribcage expanded with a heavy sigh. She stood carefully extricating herself from the pooling fabric. “I think I’m gonna head in, you want to keep the blanket?” </p><p>He could still feel her residual heat in the fabric. </p><p>Apparently, she took his hesitation for a yes and left him with the blanket, wrapping her arms around herself she scuttled to the door. She glanced over her shoulder at him with a small smile “Okay bye.” Shooting him one last little wave before she disappeared through the door. </p><p>He hadn’t noticed, but it was clearer now without a distraction. Whatever had driven him to the roof was pacified. He wrapped the other end of the blanket around himself, taking in the peacefully dim sky.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It had started innocently, just chillin’ on the roof, enough space for Jesus between them. Well, space. Probably a snug fit, but from what little she’d gathered in snippets she’d heard around the building, it didn’t seem like he was a big fan of being touched. So she’d tried to make up for that first night’s fuck up by being extra respectful of his personal space. </p><p>Well, Darcy was pretty sure whoever started those rumors was full of shit. Dude was alarmingly snuggly. Not alarming, he was perfectly lovely for 200 pounds of silent brooding (formally) Soviet super-soldier, just...a bit challenging to wrap her brain around. </p><p>They’d run into each other now and then like mutually insomniatic ships in the night, and just...chill. Sometimes he assisted as she stress cooked in the wee hours of the night, often they’d just hang out. It’d really started when she was having a little 3:00 am catatonic episode on the couch, when she heard the telltale jingle and a moment later he plopped onto the couch next to her. Well, he didn’t plop. Plopping would indicate some slight lack of coordination or care. He placed himself on the couch and then to Darcy’s utter shock in the moment he’d placed her right next to him and nestled her into his side. Like that was a fucking normal thing for a retired Hydra assassin to do!? It was weird. Not objectionable, but REALLY WEIRD. Surprisingly comfy considering how ridiculously built the man was, but kinda sorta extremely weird.</p><p>Little had she known that was just the beginning of it. Without realizing it, over a couple weeks she’d been gradually migrated from his side onto his lap. Until one random Tuesday, she realized she was using the winter soldier’s chest as a personal backrest, that or he was using her as a throw pillow...or maybe a hot water bottle? Somehow he was always colder than she expected. Though, if she gave it some thought it made sense how being injected with hydra super juice and periodically frozen and defrosted over and over for around seven decades might do weird shit to a person’s metabolism. </p><p>But all of that was beside the point! This sneaky sneak had somehow wordlessly gotten her to the point where she didn’t even bat an eye when he picked her up and deposited her in his lap like she was some goddang oversized tabby. Again, not complaining, just so SO confused! </p><p>Tall dark and scruffy was currently using her head as a chin rest as she propped her tablet up on the mismatched arms resting on her stomach. How this had become her new normal was well beyond her comprehension, but after her boss had started banging a Norse god on the reg Darcy had begun to accept that some things simply defy explanation. </p><p>She felt the weight ease off her head as he let his head fall back to settle on the armrest, and she rolled her neck giving her eyes a rest from the screen.</p><p>Darcy froze. </p><p>He wasn’t moving. </p><p>Not that the guy moved a lot when they were situated on the couch like this, at least not that she’d noticed, but given she hadn’t noticed how she’d even ended up in this position in the first place, that wasn’t saying much. The sudden awareness of his inhuman stillness made Darcy’s heart stutter in her chest. </p><p>Something was very wrong. </p><p>Paying closer attention she realized she couldn’t even feel a heartbeat against her back. Her tablet fell to the floor in her flurry of movement to flip over and press her ear to his chest. She waited as seconds ticked by straining her ears trying to hear anything. Panic coiled in her chest. Nearly 15 seconds and there was nothing. It felt like the air was being crushed out of her lungs. She couldn’t breathe.</p><p>He was dead.</p><p>HOW THE FUCK WAS HE DEAD!?</p><p>This couldn’t be happening! The edges of her vision faded as she tried to force air into her lungs, her harsh gasps too loud in the dim silent room. Fuck, was she crying? She could feel hot tears cut paths from the corners of her eyes and soak into the fabric of his shirt. Darcy didn’t understand. He’d been shot how many times and survived!? The man had a prolific reputation for being damn near impossible to kill! How the fuck was he dead!? </p><p>HOW THE FUCK DID THIS HAPPEN!?</p><p>Panic consumed Darcy like a black swarm. Drowning out all reason or sense. What was she going to do? God, how was she going to tell everyone? How was she going to tell Steve!? Would they blame her? Was it her fault!? It hurt. Her head hurt. Her heart hurt. She banged her forehead against his chest willing there to be something. Something! </p><p>She’d managed to find a tiny sliver of peace and security with this practical stranger. He'd never even spoke to her, but somehow on the nights she couldn’t escape her nightmares she’d found a reprieve with him, and now-</p><p>How could she be so fucking selfish? A man was DEAD and all she could think about was how it hurt her!? How could sh—</p><p>Through the suffocating fog of her panic Darcy heard a noise.</p><p>She heard bells.</p><p>Her head snapped up so fast it hurt and found herself looking into the very concerned and confused eyes of Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.</p><p>“YOU’RE NOT DEAD!?”</p><p>He blinked at her sudden outburst then continued to stare at her baffled. </p><p>Her words came out in a broken sob. “I thought you were dead!”</p><p>He shook his head forcefully, letting his hands come to rest on her back, rubbing slow circles into her shaking frame. </p><p>“I thought you were dead.”</p><p>“I thought you were dead.”</p><p>“You didn’t have a heartbeat. I was so scared.”</p><p>Darcy felt one of his hands slide up her back gently guiding her ear back to his chest. </p><p>There was nothing.</p><p>There was still nothing. Darcy tried to lift her head, but he held her still. After what felt like an eternity she heard a definitive thud. She shifted to look up at him and he ducked his chin in a barely perceptible nod.</p><p>“You’re not dead.”</p><p>Another nod.</p><p>She continued to listen, counting the seconds between each beat, and there it was, a strong thud every 40 or so seconds. “Oh.” She stared at him. “This is...normal for you?” </p><p>He nodded again, shrugging apologetically as if her being a clueless moron who completely failed to notice this for weeks was somehow his fault. She was so stupid. So mortified she couldn’t tell if she wanted to laugh or cry. Her body couldn’t decide either and settled somewhere between. Gross snotty sobbing interrupted by sporadic hiccups of completely inappropriate laughter. She tried to muffle her stupid emotions in his chest. Slowly, her laughing sobs settled into words as she repeated “Thank you for not being dead.” over and over against his chest. </p><p>Gods she was a fucking mess.</p><p>Once she’d collected herself enough to at least pretend she was a functioning human being she sat up off his chest. She looked down and her mortification grew. “Oh no,” an amoeba shaped wet patch spread across the middle of his shirt, was that? “I got snot on you. God, I’m so sorry.” </p><p>What the fuck had just happened? </p><p>Darcy had a full on meltdown literally ON TOP of her super chill kitchen helper insomnia buddy. Flipped the fuck out for no reason and smeared her miserable face goo all over his shirt, and now he was staring at her like she was an escaped mental patient. She needed to go. She needed to go dig a very deep hole, jump in it, and never show her face again. God! Why did she have to be such a fucking headcase!? She needed to go.</p><p>Darcy wriggled free from his arms nearly tripping over her tablet in her haste to get off the couch and bolted for the elevators, she glanced back and when she saw his horrified expression she cringed so hard she might’ve pulled something. “I-“ am a complete disaster of a human being sorry you got caught in the fallout? I’m sorry my first action upon finding you apparently dead was to freak out and cry instead of doing something remotely useful? I’ll pay for your dry cleaning? “I’m so sorry! Okay bye!” </p><p>As the elevator doors closed Darcy prayed for a bolt of lightning to spare her the agonizing awkwardness of ever facing that poor man again.</p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
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    <p>The night on the roof lingered in his mind, the inexplicable calm he found sitting beside her. He hadn’t thought it was possible, he’d subsisted on quiet for so long, resigned to the fact he would never know peace again. Decades under hydra’s control and manipulation had sewn violence into his blood. Stripped him of a fundamental facet of his humanity to turn him into a weapon. He hadn’t felt quite human in that moment beside her, he’d never feel human again, but he’d felt peace. </p>
<p>He had to know why, if it was just a fluke or if she truly had an effect on him. Fortunately for him, rather unfortunately for her, Darcy seemed prone to frequent bouts of insomnia. He didn’t question it, everyone in this place had more than their share of nightmares, he simply made himself available to be her ‘helping hands’ whenever the occasion arose. At first, she seemed quite stiff around him, nothing like the girl who’d so carelessly pressed his hands to her cheek that first night they met. He knew she was at least roughly aware of who he was and his history even then so he couldn’t understand the change in behavior, but every time she looked up to find him ringing the bells she’d given him she smiled. A real genuine smile, one that exposed the tiny gap between her two front teeth, so he believed that her new distance was not the product of fear or dislike. </p>
<p>Simply being near her helped, the little mundane tasks and stream of banter. Her warmth and softness had an almost gravitational pull on him. Years ago he might have thought she was a chatterbox, but back then he could actually hold up one end of a conversation. Now, he was content to let her do all the talking, and when she wasn’t in the mood to talk she hummed. Sometimes she even sang, the music she played might have stirred moral outrage back in the day, but he found absolutely nothing objectionable about the way she bounced and swayed to the raunchy music. </p>
<p>He’d watched her nearly reach out to invite him to dance on a few occasions then pause awkwardly and abort the gesture, looking worried that she might have offended him. When he’d worked up the nerve to playfully bump his hip against hers as they filled ravioli, she’d let out a delighted laugh and whatever tension that’d made her hesitant to touch him eased a bit. </p>
<p>There were bad nights as well, nights she was so lost in her thoughts she barely registered his presence. He’d found her motionless on the couch, knees pulled up to her chin staring at nothing. Perhaps it was selfish to seek comfort when she was so clearly struggling. Still, he’d allowed himself this selfishness and taken a spot beside her on the couch pulling her rigid form against his side. His relief was instantaneous, the contact and warmth of her driving away the hunger for violence in his veins. He couldn’t offer her much in return but gradually she eased into his side and when she finally let out a soft sigh of relief he knew that what little he could give her was not without worth. </p>
<p>The greater the contact the more effective it seemed. Pulling a dame into your lap without so much as a word of greeting may have been beyond forward, downright caddish behavior once upon a time, but if her music was any indication times had changed. Besides, they’d grown familiar...in a way... Who was he kidding? He’d been well prepared for a slap the first time he let his arms come around her waist, but Darcy didn’t seem to mind in the slightest. In fact, she barely seemed to notice, which might have bruised his pride back when he fancied himself a bit of a ladies man but hardly mattered now. </p>
<p>It was enough that she let him hold her. </p>
<p>That for a few moments he could relax. Perhaps a bit too much. He couldn’t remember the last time he fell asleep. He’d been frozen, drugged, knocked unconscious, and otherwise subdued into stillness more times than he could remember, but he hadn’t truly slept since he’d become this thing. This weapon. </p>
<p>He’d fallen asleep. </p>
<p>Only to be awoken by a weight banging against his sternum over and over, opening his eyes to find a distraught Darcy sobbing against his chest. </p>
<p>“I thought you were dead.” She had been shaking.</p>
<p>“I thought you were dead.” She cried for him.</p>
<p>It was bizarre, to think that after all he’d done there was someone, very nearly a stranger, who would mourn him like this. </p>
<p>“You didn’t have a heartbeat. I was so scared.” </p>
<p>His body had changed, heart rate slowed by Hydra's twisted science and years on ice. Now relaxed on the verge of sleep it was inhumanly slow. Still, it was surprising she hadn’t noticed earlier...then again, maybe not. He’d learned Darcy Lewis could be dangerously oblivious.</p>
<p>The weight of her relief was a pleasant sting. She’d thanked him for not being dead, over and over. The absurdity of it might have been funny if she hadn’t been so genuinely distressed. He felt awful for making her cry. Even worse that she’d felt she had to apologize to him.</p>
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